


the highest and the lowest

by mighty-worm (wyrm_n_sigun)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, bad writing probably, drawn-out character history, lots of characters referenced obliquely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-12
Updated: 2011-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 09:30:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyrm_n_sigun/pseuds/mighty-worm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10852.html?thread=53182820#t53182820">prompt</a>: "John is not Sherlock's first assistant. He's actually had three previous ones, but they never worked out. Who were they (canon characters maybe?) and what happened to them?"</p>
<p>Second <i>Sherlock</i> fic. This is rather lack-lustre, I think, and I'd probably have genderbent Mac if I wrote this now (August 2012). I don't really think this is worth re-posting, but it'd be nice to have all my stuff in one place. This one's for posterity, then. My apologies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the highest and the lowest

_I am Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no one can compete with my massive intellect._

By the time he's thirty-four, he really has started to believe that's true.

He had never expected to have many friends, and he found the company of his peers boorish and uninteresting. He did, though, often wonder what it would be like to have someone to talk to, _someone_ who could even stand him. He didn't enjoy being forced to socialize, but he enjoyed even less being forced to stay alone.

Victor Trevor was his first real companion, the first person who could stand to hang around and listen to his rapid-fire mind. He allowed himself to get quite attached to Victor; when Victor left the country after his father's death, Sherlock didn't quite know what to do. 

Well, Victor's father had told him to put his talent for induction towards something useful, so there was _something_ he could do.

Within a few months of finishing uni, Sherlock found himself sharing a cramped, dingy flat with one Sebastian Wilkes, with whom he'd only made a passing acquaintance in school. Sebastian, though, was ambitious and had a thick skin, and was willing to put up with Sherlock as the two young men pursued their separate, illustrious paths from their cheap rooms.

Sherlock did manage to gain a small bit of work via word-of-mouth and bizarrely-worded adverts in various newspapers. Sebastian largely ignored Sherlock's comings and goings, until the day Delilah More ran into the flat in a panic.

From then on, when Sebastian had a moment, he'd actually listen to Sherlock's wild corroborations. When Sebastian was free, he'd actually accompany the chain-smoking madman to the occasional sitting-room interview. He'd congratulate Sherlock on a case well-solved. He told Sherlock that maybe he wasn't so bad after all.

He was at least mildly interested.

Sherlock, of course, was never very good at people, nor at appreciating the distinction between "mildly interested" and "willing to dive into the Thames in search of a walkie-talkie".

The fight was explosive.

_What the hell is wrong with you_

_Do you honestly think people care_

_Do you honestly think I give a fuck_

_The world doesn't centre around you_

_Other people have things, more important things, to do than humour you_

_I have a career to pursue_

_What the hell is wrong with you_

_You think you're so smart, don't you, so good at figuring shit out_

_You've never figured out why no one can stand you_

_Why no one likes you_

_Why I don't like you_

_You have something wrong with you, I'm sure_

_You're not like normal people_

_You'll never have a friend_

_Never ever_

Sherlock ran out of the flat as soon as his eyes began to sting, Sebastian's words chasing him out into the night. Sherlock never intended to go back.

When he collapsed against a skip halfway across the city with the needle still in his arm, he never intended to wake up, either.

It was with absolute indignation that he opened his eyes to the harsh hospital lights.

He was informed by the sympathetic staff that he'd been discovered in the alley by a young loafer, one Shinwell Johnson. It wasn't long before Sherlock got to meet his saviour. Had he been stronger, he would have strangled him. Johnson, though, offered to help spirit Sherlock out of hospital that night. Sherlock took him up upon the offer. 

Thus began a year of madcap escapades and unsafe cocaine through London's dirtiest alleyways and sewers. When Sherlock talks about the madness of his twenties, _this_ is the year to which he refers. When Sherlock leaps across rooftops and fire escapes, _this_ is where he learned which way to go. When Sherlock knows the difference between the dirt in The City and the Strand, _this_ is when he first studied it. When Sherlock can dissect the criminal mind, _this_ is when he recognized what it looked like. Sherlock Holmes spent a year upon Shinwell Johnson's turf, and two young miscreants living upon the streets never had more fun. The laws be damned. Morals could go to hell. Always follow the path of intruige and cocaine.

Then Shinny had to go and kill a family and steal a few thousand quid when Sherlock looked away. Sherlock investigated the case, sending anonymous tips in to the Met; it wasn't long before he discovered Shinny's rather unsavoury criminal underworld roots. It was Sherlock's evidence that landed Shinny in jail, Sherlock's morals that wouldn't let him get away.

The night was hostile when Sherlock went to request an interview. The prison air was damp and chilled him to the bone. Johnson was just as distant, refused all Sherlock's promises, apologies, and rationalizations. He said it was okay. He said Sherlock didn't owe him anything. He said he'd thought Sherlock had a harder heart, and it was his own damn mistake for trusting the public school twit at all. He told Sherlock to go away.

It was half four in the morning when a sleek black saloon car pulled up next to a young drunkard with a scruffy beard and a confused heart. 

Within a few months, Sherlock Holmes had been bullied into rehab, a flat in Montague Street, and a tentative alliance with the right side of the law. He resented Mycroft's meddling, resented the fact he'd obviously failed at adulthood, at looking after himself, at even paying his own rent. He hated how right Mycroft was about everything. He loathed being proven wrong.

One thing he couldn't resent Mycroft for, though, was the steady stream of cases the official fed to his baby brother. Sherlock's case files were growing, and for once he actually believed he could stay away from the cocaine. He hit a high point when he solved a little mystery for an old schoolmate, Mr Musgrave. 

It was shortly thereafter that he met Alec MacDonald. 

Musgrave had been so impressed by Sherlock's discoveries that he'd spread the name around as quickly as he could; it was only a matter of time before the Yard caught wind of the brilliant sod with several dozen cases to his name and a reputation to boot. MacDonald was a Yarder and very eager; Sherlock couldn't say much for Mac's brains, but he was quick enough and willing to help. He was smart enough, at least, to know Sherlock's input was worth something.

They worked well together, Sherlock and Mac. Mac followed orders. He heaped praise upon Sherlock's head. He didn't like Sherlock very much at all.

They did work well together, Sherlock told himself. He told himself he enjoyed the endless adulation. He told himself he didn't want someone to talk to. He told himself he didn't want a friend, just a follower. He told himself he didn't want to be liked.

Then Mac got promoted to DI and assigned someone else to listen to Sherlock's ramblings. He turned out to be smarter than Sherlock had thought when he solved a case, and then turned out to be dumber than he looked when he went and got himself shot even when Sherlock told him the killer had a gun. 

When Sally Donovan frowns at the approaching black-clad figure several years later, it's with MacDonald's bloody end upon her mind.

Sherlock's thirty-four. He always works alone.

He's not good for people. He knows this.

Which is why it's so distressing to find he needs a flatmate.

Sherlock's rooms in Montague Street are filled with papers dating from the late nineties to last week. He's starting to get more clients through his website, and needs some place presentable. He needs to move out.

He desperately needs to move out, he explains to Mycroft in a foul email exchange. Mycroft has control of all of Sherlock's money, and Sherlock needs it to get a new place. Mycroft refuses, says he doesn't trust Sherlock to use the money properly. Mycroft's not being unreasonable, of course, which is what makes it even worse. 

Sherlock's only choice is to go to old friend Mrs Hudson and beg for a discount, but she's in need of money and really can't give him anything he can afford. He likes her, too, and is unwilling to press the issue. She asks him if he can't get a flatmate to share with. She doesn't notice the way he stiffens upon the words. She doesn't hear the old insults ringing anew in his ears. She says he's such a nice boy and really should find someone to share with, someone to talk to. She says he's good for people.

He doesn't believe that, but he thinks Mrs Hudson knows him better than he knows himself. He swallows and gives it a try. Places the matter in Mike's hands. Moves on, as if it had never happened, because it'll never make a difference. Mike won't come back with anything. Sherlock'll be impossible to find a flatmate for, he knows, impossible to find a colleague for, he knows, impossible to find a friend fo---

The door opens, and a short man with a cane stumps his way in. His name is John Watson. 

 

_I am Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no one can compete with my massive intellect._

By the time he's thirty-five, he knows that's a flagrant lie.


End file.
